


at least it was here

by januarys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarys/pseuds/januarys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her fingers form a sentence, a soft indent on his pale flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at least it was here

**Author's Note:**

> This could really be a missing scene during Scandal In Belgravia, right before shit gets real with Moriarty. Or it could just be because Irene Adler gives me _all_ the feelings.

Irene softly traces silent sentences into Sherlock's skin.

On occasion he would speak in his rapid-fire way, possibly for the itch to show off in front of her, or it could be because he's simply Sherlock. Then he would fall silent, his grey-blue eyes shining over and she knows he's retreated far into his mind, his brilliant mind full of excellent things that continually tears him apart and he still manages to piece himself back together in that very instant.

It will take a while for him to return and Irene's more than used to it by now. She kneels down in front of him, her hand rests on the warm fabric of his trousers and she smiles at him even though she knows he's lost to the world, and everyone in it.

Irene eyes his bare wrist free of the shirt sleeve that usually accompanies it and she gently places her free hand on it, barely a whisper of a touch but not quite intimate either. She watches him, he's too far gone, and of course she can't resist leaning ever more closely towards him. His warm breath tickles the skin of her cheek and the warmth that radiates of him is wonderful, gorgeous, better than the rush she feels when her clients obey her every whim.

She allows her finger to dance softly across the skin of his wrist, not quite forming a legible sentence just yet. Irene waits for a moment, let's her eyes take in every little part of him. From the black curls that hang millimetres above his eyelashes, to the way the light casts sharp angles on his face from his cheekbones, and his full, full lips that just beg to be captured, with her own of course.

Instead her finger forms a sentence, (I-l-o-) a soft indent on his pale flesh, (v-e-) and she knows he realises what she's saying, (y-o-) even if she'll never say it out loud. Irene is so sure of it; her hands are ridiculously steady as she does so. His skin is soft, and as she finishes the last letter (u) she can't help but wrap her hand around his wrist and feel the soft flutter of his pulse.

His heart.

Then his hand shifts slightly, and for a moment Irene believes he's awake and ready to dash off to solve whatever case he would be working on right now, faithful John at his side. But his eyes are still vacant, the rest of him so still and he grasps her delicate wrist in return, his fingers rest softly on her own rapidly-beating pulse.

Her heart.

Irene stays there long after the feeling is gone from her fingertips.


End file.
